


i am the sword in the darkness

by truthbealiar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 16:23:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19479610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/truthbealiar/pseuds/truthbealiar
Summary: He had a choice. Shear his head as if he were a sheep, or teachSansahow to wield a sword.- or -Jon was never making a bet with Arya again.





	i am the sword in the darkness

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is for [viserys-targaryen](http://viserys-targaryen.tumblr.com), one of the winners of my birthday fic give away! the requested prompt was "jon losing a bet and teaching sansa how to sword fight, except oh no, she's actually good at it?"
> 
> this fic is written as taking place in book canon
> 
> title of this fic is from grrm - the night watch vows.

The sound of Robb, roaring with laughter, was the only thing Jon could hear, aside from his own mind screaming the word _"No!"_ loudly and repeatedly. Standing across from him, clutching a bow to her chest, and looking mightily proud of herself, wearing a smug, gleeful expression as her only finery, was none other than Arya Stark. The sibling that Jon had once considered himself to be closest with, until this very moment. Now she was to be cast off as a traitor, never to be thought of fondly again. Robb was doubled over at the waist, howling with laughter that was far too excessive for the situation before them. From somewhere behind Jon, he heard a heavy sigh of annoyance - a noise he was quite used to hearing from his other sister. 

It had started ordinarily enough. Jon and Robb had snuck off to the godswood to shoot arrows, since Rodrik Cassel always kept far too close of an eye on them whenever they took up their bows in the training yards. Both Robb and Jon preferred the sword, but it was useful to know how to work a bow as well. It was also an opportunity to practice without Theon _Greyjoy_ hovering around like a smirking spectre of arrogance. Jon loathed Lord Stark's ward, but he tried to be a man of honor, as much as he could, and that meant not denying the simple truth that Theon Greyjoy was all but born with a bow in his hands. He had no inclination for instruction, however, and spent more of his time taunting Jon whenever he reached for a different weapon than the wooden sword that was to Jon as a bow was to Theon. The godswood offered a quiet place for Robb and Jon to practice, as Theon worshipped the Drowned God, and rarely came to the godswood, unless recuperating from a sparring match in the yards, or bringing one of the serving wenches to roll about under the trees. He was in Winter Town today though, which afforded Jon and Robb the privacy they had desired.

Or rather, it _had_ , until the girls had decided to join them. 

If only Arya had come, Jon might not have taken much issue. Arya was wild like Rickon, and as interested in sparring and weapons as Jon was. But when Arya wasn't running about underfoot, where she went, Sansa followed. For whatever reason, Sansa had been charged with making sure Arya behaved as a proper lady - a task that made both of them miserable. Jon did pity his sister - both of them, really. He doubted Sansa _liked_ ordering Arya about. She lorded it over her sister, at times, but Jon could not blame her for such a sin, when he himself was guilty of the same on occasion. More than anything, Sansa seemed _frustrated_ by her sister, and as if she would rather just leave her be, but she was her mother's daughter, and she took her familial duty very seriously. In the end, it caused misery for everyone in Winterfell, which was where Jon's sympathy ended.

But today, Sansa wasn't the problem. _Arya_ was. She had strolled right up to Robb and Jon with all of her brashness, confident and cocky in the way that Theon Greyjoy usually was, insisting that she could use a bow better than either of them. Robb had rolled his eyes and dismissed her, but Jon had let a languid smirk curl over his lips. Sometimes he got along with Arya the easiest. She struggled with the tasks and duties of a lady, and often sought comfort in Jon, whom she viewed as a fellow outsider. Though Jon's feelings on _that_ were complicated, they shared a special closeness. It did not make her immune from his teasing, however, and Jon had let his eyes scrutinize the eight-year-old girl skeptically. She hadn't liked that one bit, and had stamped her foot, belaying her attempts to seem older and more mature than her years - something her sister had down pat, not that Jon would bother to point that out.

Arya had offered to sweeten the deal though, with a bet. If Arya won, Jon would have to shear all of his curls, and keep his head bare for an entire moon. He would look like Lord Hornwood, Robb had sniggered, a taciturn Northern lord who appeared much older than his thirty-seven years, due to the lack of hair covering his head. Jon would have been horrified by such a prospect, if he had not been confident in his ability to outshoot Arya. Her end of the bargain had certainly been tempting. Much as Jon loved his little sister, and pitied her struggles with the affairs of the womenfolk, it was also endlessly amusing to see Arya be wrestled into her kirtles and manners. It was equally amusing to see Sansa's frustration build - and oftentimes the inevitable fallout was worth the laughs Jon gained from the whole thing. Arya's offer to don the very nicest gowns _and_ dance with _four_ young lordlings at the next feast was tempting indeed. And there was no way Arya would outshoot Jon.

Until she _did_.

Jon was still staring at Arya in shock, when Robb's howls finally began to down slightly, his face as ruddy as his hair, mouth stretched into a ridiculously large smile. Arya gave her half-brother a mocking curtsy, and fixed him with a look of affected pity.

"Oh Jon, it must be _dreadful_ , the idea of you parting with your beloved curls." If the matter wasn't _quite_ so serious, Jon would have rolled his eyes. His siblings liked to make japes at his expense, of how much Jon loved his hair. He was no Theon Greyjoy about his appearance, but Jon did have a certain fondness for them. "But I am a _merciful_ lady. I'll give you another option."

Jon perked up, but stared at Arya suspiciously. She was still grinning, a particularly wicked gleam in her eye that Jon didn't trust in the slightest.

"Either you can wear your hair shorn for a moon, _or_ you can train Sansa in swordplay for a moon." 

He let out an almighty groan, and Robb began laughing all over again. Arya hadn't given him a bloody choice at all! Sansa was the epitome of a lady, and wouldn't be caught dead in the training yards. Even at the absolute height of her infatuation with Ser Waymar Royce, she had only stopped by the training yards once to see him sparring with Rodrik Cassel. There was no escaping his fate. Gods, Greyjoy would never let him live this down. 

There was a loud huff from behind him, and Jon turned to see Sansa standing, brushing the dirt from her dress, and placing her hands on her hips imperiously. She looked a bit like her lady mother when she did it, and Jon had to repress a shiver.

“Oh _honestly_!” Sansa’s tone was long suffering, and Jon just barely managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “I won’t have a _bald_ half-brother.” _Half_ -brother, always half. Sansa never forgot propriety, and always made certain to maintain that distance between them. “But I won’t do it in the training yards. You’ll have to train me in the godswood.”

Jon’s jaw dropped open, as did Arya’s and Robb’s. Sansa _hated_ swordplay and violence. Even for all her wistful fancies about the tourneys of the South, she always faltered whenever Arya chimed in with eager longing for the melees and the fighting. The idea that Sansa would willingly let Jon, of all people, train her with a sword was laughable.

But apparently it was more tolerable than the idea of Jon marching around Winterfell while _bald_.

Sansa marched straight out of the godswood, with Jon’s gaping expression and Robb’s third fit of laughter following her every footstep.

They began their training on the first day of the seventh moon. Although Jon was grateful that he didn't need to look like a fool around Winterfell, he was hardly looking forward to the experience of training Sansa. Both Arya and Robb had been fixing him looks of undisguised glee for a sennight, somehow managing not to raise any suspicion, despite the obviousness of their stares. Jon had half expected them to be waiting for him in the godswood, vibrating with mirth and self-satisfaction. He had been pleased to find the godswood empty though, except for Sansa.

"I recommended that Arya be trained in the bells," Sansa informed Jon, in lieu of a greeting. "I informed Mother that I thought my presence would be a hindrance to her, and she ought to have private instruction daily, for at least a moon. Robb is with Father. After all, he is a boy of three and ten, and he will be the Lord of Winterfell eventually. It's important for him to understand the duties that will be his someday." Sansa spoke with a straight face, but Jon could have sworn there was a smirk hiding in her voice.

In truth, Jon was rather impressed. He selfishly hadn't considered that Sansa might want privacy just as badly as he did. After all, _she_ hadn't been the one foolish enough to make a bet with Arya, but she had been dragged into things. It was _Sansa_ that stood to be embarrassed by this whole ordeal, but Jon had been too busy feeling sorry for himself to actually do anything about the two who would easily torment the both of them. Jon resolved to push aside the self-pity, and direct his focus to the actual training. He wouldn't be half-hearted about it, even if this was something neither of them wanted. Jon was excellent with a sword, and everyone at Winterfell knew it. He sparred often with Robb, and though the ratio of wins to losses was only slightly disproportional, he gained an edge over his brother when it came to working with others. Robb, a brilliant fighter in his own right, didn't quite have the patience for instruction. Rather, he didn't have the patience to _articulate_ instruction. He would often use only half the words necessary to explain something, and expect whoever he was working with to simply intuit the rest. Sansa, who took to instruction beautifully, according to her septa and tutors, would have likely been driven to chuck a sword at Robb's head, if he were the one tasked with teaching her how to use a sword. Jon just had to hope she wouldn't do the same to him.

"Alright, well, I've got us some swords," Jon announced awkwardly, handing Sansa the wooden sword he had carefully selected. Although they were using wood and not real steel, the wood could weigh heavily in one's hand, particularly if someone was not used to carrying a sword. And Sansa was a girl of only eleven, used to activities such as embroidery or plucking at the strings of a harp. Jon had carefully weighed each of the wooden swords, before picking the very lightest, which he now handed to Sansa. "First though, I must teach you the proper stance and hold."

For the next several minutes, Jon instructed Sansa on how to carry herself with a sword, and how to hold it poised and ready for a fight. He found himself suddenly the focus of Sansa's complete and undivided attention, her large blue eyes carefully following every move, absorbing every word. It was almost a bit dizzying, being the focus of such intense concentration, but Jon noted with wonder that Sansa followed his every directive at once and without question. Jon had spent the past several nights wishing he had been challenged to teach his other sister instead, but he could admit that it was quite likely that Arya would have pushed back more than Sansa, even if she had craved the instruction more than her sister ever would. 

It was when the pair moved to footwork, that Sansa began to struggle. It caught Jon by surprise, in all truthfulness. Sansa was a beautiful dancer, and took to the steps naturally. She had picked up all manner of Northern dances, and quite a few Southron dances as well. She moved with the gracefulness and purpose of a lady, and Jon had thought it would be easiest to train Sansa in that. However, her long dress proved to be a problem, and to both their surprise, she spent most of the time tripping over it, trying to focus on both her feet and her arms. Jon supposed the footwork of swordplay was somewhat different to dancing, if one was unused to the movements required. By the end of the lesson, both Sansa and Jon were sweating and panting and their frustrations were practically boiling over. Jon was certain he would not survive an entire moon of this punishment.

The next day, when Sansa arrived, she was wearing _breeches_. The sight made Jon do a double take, and her face went crimson.

"Don't say anything," Sansa snapped. "You _told_ me my dress was getting in the way, and I had to lie to Mother about why it was so torn. I decided breeches would be easier." It was clear that she had tailored a pair of Arya's, rather than Robb's or even Jon's. The tunic she wore over the breeches was elegant and girlish, as if to make up for the fact that she was wearing breeches in the first place. It was an amusing sight, but Jon swallowed his smile. He was rather surprised that Sansa was taking this so seriously, but he would respond in kind.

"I'm not laughing, Sansa. I think it was very smart of you." Sansa's face flushed a little. _She likes praise_ , Jon noted. That would be good to keep in mind as he trained her. He supposed he should have realized it already. Sansa strived to make her parents proud with everything she did. It was why she could be so hard on Arya, when the two came to blows. Jon felt a sudden rush of empathy for his half-sister. Of Lord Stark's children, Jon suspected he and Sansa were the most cognizant of the social mores they found themselves surrounded by, even above Robb, who was heir, or Arya, who found herself ostracized by them at times. Sansa and Jon knew the importance of appearance and station, and Sansa was a dutiful daughter. Jon could not resent her for living within the carefully constructed lines designed for her by family and society, any more than he could resent Arya for mucking them all up. With the new epiphany in mind, Jon handed Sansa the wooden sword, and picked up where he left off the day before, instructing her on how to place her feet.

By the end of the week, Jon was convinced nothing else Sansa did could ever surprise him again - not nearly as much as she had astonished him with her natural knack for a sword. 

Sansa moved with a practiced ease that Jon rarely saw from the other boys he sparred with in the training yards. Her movements, stilted at first, became more fluid and delicate under Jon's careful tutelage. She was more hesitant than Jon would have liked, and she always balked short of causing any harm - even a light bruise, but she had actual _talent_. Seven hells, if Sansa wanted, she could easily be as fierce as the Mormont women of Bear Island were rumored to be. Jon had spent more time than he would have liked to admit, trying to pick his jaw up off the ground of the godswood, stunned by Sansa's natural inclination for the wooden sword - and the complete apathy she seemed to display, save for the times Jon praised her for mastering something particular.

He had heard the stories, as had much of the kingdom, of Rhaegar Targaryen, the Silver Prince, who had been a man far more interested in songs and stories than he ever had been in swords and steel. Until of course, he had latched onto some prophecy or other, and picked up a sword for himself. The story went that Rhaegar proved himself to be a natural talent, and took to the sword as easily as he had taken to the harp, with half as much interest in it. It was said to have been an extraordinary sight, seeing Rhaegar learn how to fight. Jon wondered, as he watched Sansa moving in the godswood, her brow furrowed and her tongue poking out ever so slightly with concentration, if Jon wasn't witnessing something quite similar.

The rest of their days past much like that first week, and Sansa's interest did not seem to grow, though if anything, her fondness for Jon _did_. He still struggled to think of her the same way he did Arya, due to the carefully maintained distance Jon respected between the two of them, but he learned more about Sansa in the godswood. He learned that she pretended she was one of the heroes in her songs, as Jon taught her and sparred lightly with her. She had looked embarrassed at the confession, peering up at him from underneath her long eyelashes, fearful that he might tease her for it. Instead, Jon had dropped his voice, and admitted that at times, he also pretended he was Daeron the Young Dragon, or Aemon the Dragonknight. He knew, as everyone in Winterfell knew, that Sansa liked lemoncakes, but he learned that she also loved mutton stew, and she loathed turnips more than anything. The day that Sansa managed to knock the wooden sword out of Jon's hand, he had snuck into the kitchens and begged the cook, a matronly woman named Arra who had a sweet spot for the bastard of Winterfell, to prepare mutton stew for supper. Sansa had beamed at him so brightly from her place at the dinner table, that even Theon had remarked that Jon hadn't sulked in the shadows as he usually did.

Jon didn't know quite _why_ he was so surprised by Sansa's declaration that they would soon be done with this training, but he was. Although the terms of the bet had been a full moon - a length of time which Arya had regretted, since neither Jon nor Sansa were as sullen as she had hoped - Jon had forgotten there was a specific endpoint to Sansa's lessons with a sword. She had only improved in the time Jon had spent training her, and he was eager to see how she fared after a greater length of time. It was impossible to deny her natural skill, and he suspected even Rodrik Cassel would be impressed by the talent Sansa displayed.

Sansa had simply laughed when Jon referenced picking up swords again, once the moon had ended, and even turning to real steel, eventually, though Jon knew it would take an awful lot of convincing before anyone handed over real steel to Sansa - not least because Arya would never let Winterfell hear the end of it, if her older, ladylike sister was given a true sword to fight with. 

"Oh Jon," she had gasped out, wiping away a stray tear that had fallen in her laughter, "You don't think I'll continue sparring after this, do you?" Jon had just stared, mildly offended, and a bit agog that Sansa didn't seem to realize her potential. Jon praised Sansa partly because he knew how well she responded to feeling as if she had succeeded, but Jon was not liberal with his praise. He did not bestow a single compliment on Sansa that she did not earn, and she had earned many. 

"You're excellent at this though," Jon insisted. "And women can be warriors too. Especially in the North. Look at the Mormonts, or even Arya. Ladies can wield swords." It was...unorthodox, of course. Jon wasn't naive enough to think that it would be frowned upon, but Ned Stark was indulgent with his daughters. He had allowed Arya her freedom in the training yards more than once. Surely he would be pleased to see his other daughter take up a sword herself, especially when he saw how well Sansa wielded it. 

Sansa just smiled, and pressed a kiss to Jon's cheek, a rare display of affection. "You're sweet," she had said softly, her voice a whisper in the godswood. "And I've liked learning from you. But I have no interest in swords."

Jon wrinkled his forehead. "But you can learn to defend yourself!" He protested, though he knew it was a lost cause.

Sansa raised an eyebrow - something even Robb could not yet do. She had mastered that, of course, the way she seemed to master _everything_ except for arithmetic. "I'm a lady. I'll have knights and guards to save me." Jon tried not to roll his eyes, he really did. "Thank you Jon. Maybe someday I'll have use for a blade."

With a smile, she returned the wooden sword to Jon's hand, and disappeared from the godswood, back to her life as the lady she had always been.

* * *

The King in the North's eyes swept over the people assembled in the High Hall, before finally resting on the sickly boy, sprawled atop the throne that had once belonged to Jon Arryn, the King's own namesake. The air was heavy with whispers, and he felt more than saw the eyes carefully trained on him. Jon paid no mind to the lords and ladies of the Vale, instead focusing his gaze on the young, sickly, Lord Robert Arryn, and the cruel man smirking beside him, fighting back his own impatience. 

Jon had come to the Vale at the urging of his bannermen - particularly House Manderly - and the insistence of his aunt, who sat on the Southron throne. Jon would have come even had they all expressly forbade it, when the whispers of a winter rose hidden away in the mountains began to sweep across Westeros. Sansa Stark, it had been said by many before, was the Key to the North. Particularly now that Jon - who had been named King long before Daenerys Targaryen had flown to Westeros - had been revealed a Targaryen. Tensions were fraught between Jon and his aunt, who suspected Jon of hidden desires to claim all of Westeros as his birthright, and with his bannermen as well, who had believed themselves to be crowning a wolf, not a dragon, nevermind the fact that Jon was more wolf than dragon, and had spent his entire life in the North. All had demanded that Jon march to the Vale, and return Sansa to her rightful home of Winterfell, and marry her to secure his claim. 

All Jon wanted to do was see his cousin again. 

Maester Aemon had told Jon that it was a terrible thing for a Targaryen to be alone in the world, a sentiment his aunt echoed with glowing violet eyes, assuring him in the same breath that it was his name alone that stayed her tongue from raining dragonfire down upon him. Jon believed them, to a degree. He wondered though, if anyone had ever known how cruel a thing it was to be a lone wolf, a sole Stark, separated from his pack. Robb was dead. The rest of his cousins were missing, with various rumors and whispers - stories of ravens and greenseers and Braavosi murderesses and Skagosi cannibals - all that Jon had left of them. Until the murmurs from the Vale. Until the hushed voices claiming that Sansa Stark was indeed, hidden away, named a bastard for her own protection. And so Jon had rode to the Vale, only to find the Eyrie in uproar, with a woman named Alayne Stone, accused of _claiming_ to be Sansa Stark, imprisoned for the murder of her father, Petyr Baelish. 

The doors opened, and Jon's eyes snapped toward the sound, his burning grey gaze resting on the figure who walked through, head of shiny, copper hair held high, ignoring the fresh wave of whispers that swept over the Great Hall. Jon had seen the commissioned portrait of Alayne Stone, bastard of Petyr Baelish, and had noted her brown hair, and dissimilar features that marked her apart from his cousin, an attempt to convince Jon that while there may have been some resemblance, Alayne Baelish was no Sansa Stark.

Jon wondered who would dare deny it now, as the fire kissed winter rose stood before the lords and ladies of the Vale, with her chin held aloft, her eyes like Northern ice. 

His cousin had been a beautiful girl. It was something that had been _known_ in Winterfell. Not beautiful for a child, or the makings of a lovely woman, or the many other carefully crafted compliments that were often bandied about for children who had the potential for beauty, but were often awkward and at times unseemly as children - as was often the case with _children_. No, Sansa had been truly beautiful, as her aunt Lyanna - Jon's own mother - had been rumored to be. More than one Northern Lord had attempted to convince Lord Stark to allow her to wed early, mistaking her for older than she truly was, due to the Stark height. Such pleas had been refused harshly and without consideration. 

He had never thought much on Sansa's beauty as a child, other than to realize it was there, the same way he recognized Robb's charisma, or Arya's spirit, or Bran's curiosity, or Rickon's playfulness. She had been a girl of just eleven when Jon saw her last. Beautiful and sweet, but a girl, and his half-sister, no matter the distance between them. Now she was nearly six and ten, nearly a woman grown, and far more beautiful than Jon could have ever expected, and his cousin, and the key to the North, the woman his bannermen expected him to marry, and all Jon could wonder was if she ever smiled anymore.

Sansa Stark had the loveliest smile. Jon hoped very much, he would see it again.

"Alayne Baelish, you have been brought before the Lords of the Vale on the charge of murder and kinslaying. How do you answer for these crimes?" Jon's eyes narrowed at the man beside Robert Arryn, Lyonel Corbray, Lord of Heart's Home. Jon remembered his lip curling in disgust when he learned of the man's marriage to a girl of only sixteen, hardly older than Sansa herself. His hand twitched over the pommel of Longclaw when he noted the obvious lust in the man's eye as he stared down at Sansa, gaze resting on the modest cut of her dress, as if it were slashed in the Essosi style, to reveal miles of pale skin. Sansa was undaunted by the man's gaze, and Jon's jaw clenched. The girl he knew at Winterfell would have been horrified, would have hidden herself away, and buried her face in the cloaks of her father or brothers, who would have cut a man down for staring at her the way Lord Corbray stared at her now. Jon felt his concern swell in his breast. What had Sansa endured, that she could so easily ignore such a gaze?

"I do confess to murdering Petyr Baelish." Sansa's words were crisp and clear, and heard above even the buzz of whispers that erupted yet again. "However, he was not my father. Petyr Baelish stole me away from King's Landing after arranging for the death of the False King, Joffrey Waters. I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Stark. I killed Lord Baelish when he made plans to have Your Grace killed, upon his arrival here." Sansa's eyes were suddenly on Jon's, and he felt as though he could not look away. "I used a sword I had stolen from the armory, and I killed Lord Baelish for conspiring to murder my king, along his many other crimes." More noise had broken out, with most of the lords and ladies dispensing all appearances of whispering, but Jon could not tear his gaze from Sansa. _My king_. She had declared him _my king_. Jon could not deny how the words made his blood rush.

"You expect us to believe you, a _bastard girl,_ capable of stealing and wielding a sword?" It was not Lord Corbray who spoke, but another skeptical Lord from the crowd. Tired of the farce of a trial, tired of remaining seated and silent, tired of every moment he spent not holding Sansa to him, relishing in the feeling of the last of the Starks reunited again, Jon stood, and silence fell, with all eyes suddenly focused on him.

"My lords and ladies, let me put your minds at ease," Jon said surely. His speaking skills had improved somewhat, now that he was called to do it more often, and in front of much larger crowds. He would never be his aunt, but there was no need for that, not in the North. "This is indeed my cousin, Sansa Stark. As such, denying her as princess of Winterfell was a treasonous act. I am certain, upon investigation, that my cousin's claims of Petyr Baelish's crimes will be proven true. As for her wielding a sword," Jon smirked, and let his eyes meet Sansa's, grey against blue, the memory of sun-dappled days practically dancing to the dull _thunks_ of wood against wood in the godswood unfurling between them, "I taught her how to do so myself."

* * *

The hall was loud and warm and merry, filled with the delight of the North and their celebration, and Jon had eyes only for his bride. 

Sansa Stark was indeed smiling again. In fact, she was rarely seen without a smile, lovelier by far than any jewels she wore. Most of her hair was pinned into a series of elaborate, Northern style braids gathered at the nape of her neck, leaving the rest to fall down her back in long, curly waves. Jon found his hands trailing through the strands now, his touch light and hesitant, as if the fire of her hair could leap out and burn his skin again. She was truly a vision, dressed in white fabric that seemed to sparkle like fresh snow, whenever Sansa stepped. Her cheeks were flushed with laughter and spirit, and her eyes were the bluest Jon had ever seen, sparkling just for him, whenever she met his gaze that was permanently fixed on her.

"Do you plan to stare at me the entire feast, my king?" Sansa asked, chiding, though unable to scrub the delight from her voice. Jon just smiled in turn, a rare thing for the dour Northern king, according to the men who knew him only from tales on the battlefield and the near dance of dragons that had occurred, when Daenerys Targaryen had stepped onto Westeros' soil, and declared herself queen of the Seven Kingdoms. 

"That happened to be my exact plan, my queen," Jon said softly. Sansa's smile widened. She had always wanted to be queen, as a girl. When queens were beautiful women who wore beautiful dresses and sang beautifully, and danced with handsome knights. Sansa was the most beautiful woman Jon had ever seen, and she wore beautiful dresses, and her voice was as crystalline and lovely as it had been as a child. Jon was no knight, but he was a king, and he intended to dance with her as many times as she asked, for Sansa loved to dance, even if Jon did not.

But she was also kind, and dutiful. She visited the poor in Wintertown, and worked until her fingers were numb, sewing clothes and blankets for the needy, the soldiers, the injured. She spent nights in her solar, poring over household accounts, determined to master the figures that had always escaped her. She argued with Jon until they were both hoarse and panting, debating the merits of each political move, proving herself as much of an advisor as any Northern lord. She drafted a series of laws for the whores in the brothels, with tears in her eyes as she whispered Petyr Baelish's crimes into Jon's shirt, as his arms tightened around her, more grateful than ever that she had learned how to wield a sword.

Sansa was a queen. The queen of the sweet songs she had loved as a child, and the queen of winter in its harsh reality. The people adored her - more than they even loved their king, Jon suspected. They were not alone in such adoration, and he only gazed at her lovingly. 

"Well," Sansa began impishly, the redness of her cheeks deepening. "If you plan to stare at me all night, there seems to be no reason you can't do it from the privacy of your bedchamber." 

Jon's eyes darkened, and he pulled back his chair abruptly, tugging Sansa along with him, desperate to swallow her giggles, and taste the rest of her while he was at it. "I suppose I must thank Arya," he murmured lowly against his wife's ear, eyes finally leaving her profile to glance at where his sister, recently returned, was smirking over her ale at a blacksmith from the South. "She'll loathe that she was the one responsible for it all."

He felt a finger suddenly poking at his chest, and he glanced down at Sansa.

"Thank her tomorrow," She ordered. "And thank _me_ tonight. After all, _I_ _'m_ the one who refused to have a bald husband."

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

* * *

On days like this, Jon always knew where he could find his family. Winter had descended over Westeros again, and the sky was often thick and gray with clouds. On the rare occasions when the sun peeked through, everyone in Winterfell seemed to take advantage, though none moreso than his wife. 

After visiting with Lord Royce and the other representative from the Vale, Jon had made his way to the godswood, streaked with rare sunlight, following the sound of shrieking laughter, close to the place he had once stood across a lady of only ten years, and swung a wooden sword at her face. 

Sure enough, Sansa was seated on the meadow, with her back resting against a tree, her hands moving nimbly across an embroidery circle, with her careful eyes dancing between their son, resting on his belly on the furs she had laid out, and their older three children, practically dancing around the trees, playacting one song or another. 

Jon’s mouth curved into a smile, an expression that was common enough to see on his face - so common that claims of the Northern King’s sullenness were often scoffed at by anyone who had spent a period of time at Winterfell. Sansa’s eyes lifted from where young Rickard had managed to roll over onto his back, and she smiled at Jon, the way the sun seemed to smile down upon the North when the clouds were parted. 

“I’m pleased you could join us, Your Grace,” Sansa teased in a sing-song voice, and Jon crossed the length of the grass between them, and took his seat behind his wife, shifting her so that she was settled between his legs, her back resting against his chest, his lips pressed against her auburn hair, loosely braided and pinned. 

“I hardly have anywhere better to be, Your Grace,” Jon murmured softly against Sansa’s hair, feeling her shiver against him. “What are they playing?” Jon asked quietly, gesturing to where his son and eldest daughters were laughing and hopping around one another with sticks, clearly playacting a fight of some sort. What was surprising to Jon, however, was the presence of a stick in Robb’s hand, while Sarra leaped about, watching Lyessa and Robb ‘duel’. Their eldest child did not share his father’s interest in the training yards, and often seemed far more content with the many books that lined the walls of Winterfell’s library tower - though he did not lack talent when he trained. 

Sansa turned her face toward Jon with the wide smile that still took his breath away, years later. “I told them a story,” she said softly, reaching up to steal a kiss that Jon gave into easily. “A story about the godswood here.”

“Oh?” Jon raised his eyebrows, his own mouth curling into a deeper smile, an inkling of the story his wife had shared taking root in his mind. “And what story would that have been?”

“It was a story about a girl who saved a future king from a life of baldness, by learning to pick up a blade.”

Years and years ago, the King in the North had stood in the same godswood, slackjawed and baffled, while his younger cousin - though he would always consider her a sister - teased, and the young man he would eventually name his son for, laughed as if the next day would never come. The echoes of Robb’s laughter seemed to join Jon’s own, as he looked between his wife and his children playing contentedly in the godswood, the _thunks_ of sticks crashing against each other, just as Jon’s own sword had crashed against Sansa’s. 

**Author's Note:**

> comments/kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
